Sunday Brunch
by harpomarx
Summary: When a jazz musician collapses on stage, House has only a short time to diagnose and treat.
1. Chapter 1

"Aren't you ready yet?"

An annoyed female voice came from the back of the house. "Chill out, would you? I'm just putting on my lipstick. What's the big rush, anyway?"

"The music starts at eleven. I want to get a good table."

"Okay, okay. I'm coming."

The couple bundled themselves in their car, and headed out.

They would end the day at the hospital.

The Satchmo Club was the opposite of the stereotypic jazz club. It was bright, not dark, and there was no smoke swirling. Food was served—great food—and the music started early. Sunday brunches were SRO.

Paul Randolph Johnston started the club ten years ago, with the goal of bringing younger audiences to classic jazz. He took out a bank loan and bought a rundown old Victorian mansion just north of the Princeton Shopping Center. It was on a nice piece of property, and there was plenty of parking nearby. After getting advice from an old buddy who had become an acoustician, he gutted the downstairs, combining the living room and parlor to create a large front room. Then he created a small stage at the back of the room, put up slanted ceiling tiles to reflect the sound, and purchased solid, rustic antique tables, comfortable chairs and a few couches to be strewn around the main room.

The old kitchen was merged with the dining room, and state-of-the-art restaurant kitchen equipment was installed. For weeks, while the construction was going on, Paul scoured the local restaurant reviews, looking for a chef. Finally, he found the person he was looking for in a local restaurateur whose business had gone bad. Anthony Eversole (whose friends pronounced his first name "Ant-ny") may not have been a great businessman, but he was a phenom in the kitchen, creating unusual and appetizing main courses and desserts that would put Paul's little jazz club at the forefront of regional dining.

Paul's longtime girlfriend, Josette Antonetti, quit her boring, meaningless job as an accountant to manage Satchmo's. She not only kept the books—and did it extremely well—but she also hired the very best kitchen and wait staff, paid them well and kept the atmosphere pleasant.

And then there were the musicians. This was Paul's real forte—finding the best area musicians and giving them a showplace. He haunted New York's best jazz clubs and those in outlying communities to bring talent to his club. If you were any good, you'd think you'd died and gone to heaven if Paul Randolph Johnston came a-calling.

When he started Satchmo's, Paul decided it was time to rethink how jazz was presented. On weekdays, he conducted his now-famous Jazz For Kids series at the club, hosting school groups from all over the area, providing jazz history seminars and music lessons, while feeding the kids some of Anthony's excellent food at the same time.

His musicians played at breakfast, lunch and dinner, along with concerts set up for special occasions. The late-night jam sessions were free and open to anyone who wanted to attend; they sometimes went on all night, as the musicians and the guests swung the night away. On more than one occasion, the early morning crowd would arrive for breakfast to find five or ten bleary-eyed musicians joining whichever group Paul had hired to play from eight to eleven a.m.

The highlight of the week was undoubtedly the jazz brunch on Saturday and Sunday from eleven to two. People who had had no previous interest in jazz showed up once word got out that Anthony Eversole was in the kitchen. Reservations were required, admission cost was high and the place sold out every time.

First-timers were sometimes surprised by the music, which was often raucous and lively. Not a simple background pianist playing soothing soft jazz quietly enough so people could talk over it. No, this was the real deal, real jazz—the kind you listened to because it's so damn good, you couldn't help yourself. The music was infectious, and sometimes people got up and danced. Paul designated an area at the back of the room, near the door, for the dancers to frolic. Swing dancers in period garb usually occupied part of the dance floor.

Johnston's Jazz All-Stars, his brunch-time house band, was made up of the very best regional musicians. Initially, they were none too thrilled with the idea of waking up early enough to play at eleven, but the money was good—really good—the music was great and so was the free food. Soon the hours didn't matter, and everyone who was anyone wanted to be part of Johnston's Jazz All-Stars for Sunday brunch.

The membership of the group varied from week to week, depending on who was available. If someone got a great gig in Manhattan, or Stockholm or Hoboken, a backup would fill in… or they'd just do without that instrument. That's one of the great things about jazz. It's improvisatory, and sometimes improvisatory means improvising which instruments are going to be part of the band at any given time.

There were a few regulars, or semi-regulars, who were known to the customers by their nicknames. "Hot Lips" was a trumpet player who doubled on cornet and trombone, "Reeds" played clarinet and sax, "Skinny Skins" (aka "S-Man" or simply "Skins") was an all-around musician who hit the drums and often filled in on other instruments, "Deep Voice" (aka "DV") plucked the bass and blew the tuba. Sometimes they were joined by "Keys" on piano, when he was available, and "Cutestuff" on vocals, plus several others to round out the house band.

Paul had plucked them out of other clubs, crafting them into a tight, hot jazz ensemble equally at ease with Dixieland and be-bop. This basic group was a congenial bunch who practically lived at the club, often showing up when other bands played, and nearly always sitting in on the jam sessions. Sharing in each other's triumphs and tragedies, they got along well, despite disparate personalities.

But mostly, they made music. Really good music.

And so, every Saturday and Sunday, the music was hot and sweet, the food was magnificent, the acoustics great, and the customers loved the whole atmosphere.

In short, the place was a sensation.

On that frigid Sunday in February, the place was packed by ten-thirty in the morning, with an overflow crowd hoping someone would leave and free up a table.

"I _told_ you I wanted to get here early," griped the man when they were parked at the back of the room. "But no. You had to futz around for half an hour. And now we're stuck at a rotten table."

"I know, I know," said the woman. "It's all my fault. It's always all my fault. Sorry I'm not good enough for you."

She glared at him.

He glared back.

"It would be nice if, for once," she added, unwilling to let it go, "you treated me as if I had some brains. I seem to recall a guy who thought I was pretty special once."

"Well, maybe if you acted as if you had brains, it would be easier to remember you were special."

"Will you two please shut the fuck up?" said a deep voice in front of them.

Their sniping was really getting on his nerves. It wasn't bad enough that he'd wound up in the back of the room—damned stupid car wouldn't start in the cold—but if he was going to have to listen to these two for the next three hours, he couldn't be held accountable for what he might say.

Backstage, in what used to be the sitting room, the band was getting ready. Hot Lips buzzed his lips, Reeds' reeds soaked in bourbon, DV tuned his bass, and Skins had just been informed he'd be sitting in on piano today, because Keys was out with the flu. A newcomer named Johnny something-or-other would take over the drums. Skins just hoped the kid could keep time.

Just as they got ready to move into the main room, Hot Lips saw a wince cross Skins' face.

"Hey, you okay?" he asked. Since taking this gig, Skins had become one of his best friends.

"I guess," came the reply. "Just got a twinge."

"Gotta stop all that exercise," called out Reeds. "It'll kill you."

Skins smiled, but the smile soon turned into another grimace.

"Fuck," he said through clenched teeth. "Don't know what I did."

"Well, no one _else's _gonna know," Reeds pointed out with obvious logic.

"You okay to go on?" asked DV. "Looks like that mother really hurts."

Skins nodded his head.

"It's nothing. Besides, we don't have a guitar today, so somebody's got to fill out the rhythm section."

Too true.

Soon Paul was introducing them. One by one, they wandered out onto the stage, adjusting mikes, setting up charts and dropping instrument cases on the floor. Skins settled himself comfortably at the keyboard of the Steinway baby grand as Deep Voice set up behind him, with the new kid Johnny whatever-his-name-was in the middle behind everyone else.

They'd decided today they were going to play around with some early `30s numbers, and really make it swing. Skins loved it. Some Fats Waller stride, maybe some hot `20s stuff with muted trumpet. Nothing like waking up half of suburbia on a Sunday morning.

Halfway through "Black Bottom," their second number, Hot Lips thought he heard something go wrong with the clarinet. Reeds must have split a reed. He paused a moment to listen, and then realized what he was hearing wasn't a clarinet at all.

Skins was screaming.

For a moment, the audience thought it was all part of the act, clapping and laughing as shrieks tore from Skins' mouth. But when he fell off the bench and then right off the front of the stage, curled up in agony, it was apparent to everyone that something was seriously wrong.

The screaming continued for a moment as silence descended on the room. In that frozen instant, Hot Lips saw forks poised in mid-air in front of open mouths.

Running across the stage, he jumped down and dropped to the floor next to his friend.

"Oh, my God, man! What the hell's going on?"

Skins just shook his head, biting his lip as he tried to keep the next scream inside. He didn't succeed.

Hot Lips jumped to his feet, grabbing a mike.

"Any of you guys a doctor? Something's really wrong here. We need a doctor."

A hand raised up at the back of the room.

The woman looked startled.

"You're not really going up there, are you?" asked the woman, incredulously. "You're an oncologist."

"Yes, Bonnie. I'm going up there," said James Wilson as he pushed his chair back and ran toward the front of the room, "I'm a doctor, and this man is in terrible pain."


	2. Chapter 2

The ambulance screamed down the road, headed toward the emergency room of Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital.

In the back, Wilson hovered over the stricken musician. Bonnie followed reluctantly in their car.

"How's the pain?"

No answer.

"Stay with me," said Wilson, getting concerned. "Come on."

With an effort, Skins opened his eyes. He was pale, sweating profusely and moaning loudly. His heart was racing dangerously. He was headed toward cardiac arrest.

"Can't you give me anything?" he managed to ask around moans. "It's… awful."

"The aspirin didn't help?" Stupid question. Obvious answer.

The suffering man shook his head.

"Not even close."

Wilson conferred a moment with the EMTs, who agreed that Demerol was the best choice. They gave him an injection, and within a few minutes, the shaking man unwound, his eyes closing in relief.

"Have you been exercising much lately?"

The patient sleepily opened his eyes to find himself in an examining room looking at the doctor from the ambulance. Must be in the ER, he thought. Hot Lips was sitting next to him, a concerned look on his face.

"No," he said. "Nothing out of the ordinary. A little jogging, some handball… that kind of stuff."

Wilson left the room, heading upstairs to confer with Lisa Cuddy.

"Seems like a simple muscle cramp," she said when he explained the situation. "Give him bed rest, heat and antibiotics."

Wilson shook his head.

"I don't think so," he said. "This wasn't like any muscle cramping I've ever seen. It was far too intense. He literally collapsed on the stage in the middle of a number."

"Fine," said Cuddy. "I still think it's muscle strain, but since you feel so strongly about it, let's keep him here overnight for observation. Give him heat anyway, just in case."

She hesitated for a moment, and then went on.

"You know, he _is_ a musician. Could this be drug-seeking behavior?"

A stereotype. Great. Just what he needed at noon on a Sunday. Wilson shook his head again.

"Don't think so. There's no way he could have known there was a doctor in the house. Whatever this is, it's real."

After a moment's hesitation, she agreed.

"Sir…" She hesitated, not knowing his name. He'd been unconscious when he was brought in, and the paperwork hadn't been filled out yet.

"It's Skins," said Hot Lips, looking with concern at his friend, who was moaning as he attempted to focus his eyes.

"Mr…. uh, Skins?"

Skins reluctantly opened his eyes.

"We're going to admit you for observation. Do you think you feel awake enough to fill out the paperwork? I can read you the questions, if that's easier."

Skins nodded. He didn't think he could handle filling it out himself. Right now, he felt drugged… and not in a good way… but underneath, the pain was still there. He'd never felt anything like it in his life, and hoped he'd never feel anything like it again.

The sharp-faced nurse looked down at her clipboard.

He tried to keep his eyes open.

First question.

"Name?"

Stupid woman.

"Yes."

"I beg your pardon?"

"A name. Yes. I have one."

Oh, great. A funnyman.

"_Your_ name."

"Is that a question?"

"_What_ is your name?"

Some days, they just didn't pay her enough.

"Gregory House."

"What is your occupation?"

"Musician."

Hot Lips interrupted.

"Actually, he's a doctor."

The nurse looked confused. Then she looked annoyed.

"Which is it? A musician or a doctor?" She was just doing her job, on a Sunday yet. Why did people always have to mess with her?

Hot Lips nonverbally asked Skins if he could divulge. His response was a shrug. _Fine. Tell her. _

"The guy's got a medical degree. Just kind of fell into music instead."

"Okay," said the nurse, whose name seemed to be Brenda something, according to the tag on her chest. "I'll put them both down. Gregory House. Musician and M.D." She looked up. "May I ask…" She wasn't sure how to phrase the question. "Specialty?" she added, lamely. And then quickly, before he could make some smart remark: "What is your specialty?"

"Double, in nephrology and infectious diseases."

She looked startled.

"With that kind of background, why aren't you practicing somewhere?"

Skins smiled grimly before answering.

"I _am_ practicing. I'm practicing drums. Also piano and guitar."

"Medicine. Why aren't you practicing medicine?

She was going to make it difficult. This question can't really be on her form.

House sighed.

"Hate the routine. I mean _really_ hate it. A lot. Get bored and frustrated. Then I tend to piss people off. When I piss people off, they tend to fire me. So I'm back to music. Seem to do better in this world. Musicians are a lot more laid back than doctors. A lot more accepting. Better life. Less dough, but much better life."

The nurse wasn't willing to let it go.

"But as a doctor, you'd be healing people."

The patient grimaced, then looked at her steadily.

"And as a musician I make them feel good. What's the difference?"

She looked flummoxed.

All that talking really took it out of him. He closed his eyes wearily, and Hot Lips saw a flash of pain cross his face.

"Still hurting, man?" asked Hot Lips, concern obvious on his face.

House nodded, his hand kneading his right thigh.

Back upstairs, James Wilson was still talking it over with Lisa Cuddy.

"Wish we had a department of diagnostic medicine here," said Cuddy. "If we can't figure this out easily, I'd hate to have to send him off to Manhattan General for a diagnosis."

"Well, when you're running the world, maybe that can happen."

Cuddy smiled. When she ran the world…


	3. Chapter 3

As he lay there, Gregory House had nothing to do but think. Which was fine. Apart from playing, thinking was what he did best.

Muscle strain? Had he pulled something? He thought back over the last couple of days. Nothing out of the ordinary. Hadn't felt anything at the time. But today—that was different.

It started as they were warming up backstage. At first, just a twinge, then a sharp stab… then onstage it became excruciating. The kind of pain that rips you to shreds and leaves you weak and helpless.

He only vaguely remembered falling off the piano bench onto the stage and then off the stage and onto the floor. All he could remember was the intensity of the pain. Probably had some bruises from where he landed. Gingerly, he felt his buttocks and back. Yep. Big ugly bruises.

Looking over at Hot Lips, he remembered something.

"Shit!" he said suddenly.

Hot Lips leaned forward.

"What? What is it? Are you hurting?"

"No… yes. Janet. She'll show up at the club to meet me and hear it from someone else."

"Fuck," said Hot Lips, whose real name was Dwayne Simpson. "I never even thought. She's gonna be upset I didn't call her sooner."

"Hey, give her a call, would you? My cell's in my pocket. She's speed dial one."

Dwayne rooted around till he found the cell. When he looked up, Skins was asleep.

He felt a soft hand on his cheek.

"Hey."

"Hey."

Somehow, in the few seconds his eyes were closed, Janet had gotten here. Or maybe it wasn't a few seconds.

A tall, soft-featured brunette he'd met two years ago at a high-priced gig in lower Manhattan, she was a New York health law attorney specializing in patients' rights, which was a good fit with his background.

From the first moment, she was attracted to the lanky, scruffy musician, appreciating his biting wit as well as his talent. Although he had a medical degree, her folks were not thrilled that their overachieving daughter was dating, then living with, a musician who really should have been a doctor, but was just too lazy.

"What time is it?" he asked groggily.

"About five," she replied, looking at him with concern.

"Been here long?"

"Two-three hours, more or less. How you feeling?"

"Just call me Dopey."

"Well, I usually call you Grumpy, so I guess this is an improvement."

He smiled at her. Life had been pretty good since she moved in with him. They were well matched—both extremely bright, with sharp senses of humor. And the sex wasn't bad either.

She squeezed his hand.

"Hungry? Someone came in asking a while ago, but I didn't want to wake you up."

He thought about it a moment, then shook his head. Not hungry. Not sleepy. But that pain was still there, still gnawing at his leg. Maybe he could distract himself.

"Tell me about your exceedingly boring day. Start from when you left the house."

As she talked, he felt the pain increasing. Soon he couldn't concentrate on what she was saying. He tried, but all he could think about was the pain.

"Nurse! Nurse! Help!"

The door whooshed open.

The patient was crying out, his anguished howls wafting into the hallway.

More Demerol was injected into his IV line, but it wasn't enough.

"Better?"

"A little," said House.

"Let me get the doctor," said the nurse.

Wilson's pager went off, and within a couple of minutes, he'd returned to the room. He found the patient writhing in pain while a woman—girlfriend maybe—held his hand tightly, looking anxious. Two men stood helplessly by, one a scruffy little red-haired fellow in his mid-30s wearing a vest and a battered fedora, and the other a tall African-American in his 50s dressed casually in a t-shirt and jeans.

The nurse pulled Wilson aside.

"I gave him more Demerol, but it didn't seem to help. I've upped the dosage to the maximum, but… well, look at him…"

Wilson looked.

The man's gaunt face was contorted with pain.

Quickly paging Cuddy, Wilson came further into the room, approaching the patient. Theoretically, someone else should be handling this case. As an oncologist, he shouldn't be the attending on this case. But he was there when it started, and somehow he felt responsible for seeing it through.

Another few minutes later, Cuddy entered the room. Suddenly, she froze. Her face grew pale.

"I-I thought you said he was a musician," she whispered to Wilson.

"He is," replied Wilson, confused. "He's a drummer."

"No, he's not. He's a doctor. A good one. A really good one." Her heart was beating a little too fast.

Wilson grabbed the chart from the end of the bed. Sure enough. It said that the patient had a medical degree. Double specialty in nephrology and infectious diseases.

"How did you know?"

"He… I-I… We… uh…. went to school together."

She approached the bed. The man with whom she… uh… went to school was groaning, clutching at his right thigh.

"Greg?"

He looked up. For a moment, he couldn't seem to focus his eyes. Then he recognized her.

"Lisa?" he managed to spit out.

"What's happening? What are you doing here?"

The girlfriend glanced quickly from House's face to Cuddy's. She was sharp enough to figure out that these two had some kind of history together, and wise enough not to be bothered by it.

"My leg… oh, God! It hurts!"

"We've just maxed you out on Demerol. Still hurting?"

He glared at her as a small moan escaped him.

"Duh. What do you think?"

Morphine was slowly added to his IV, and eventually the pain faded to a more manageable level. House drifted off into a drug-induced sleep.

"Still think it's muscle strain?" asked Wilson, a little sarcastically.

Cuddy shook her head. Her stomach was in knots.

While she was lost in thought, Wilson's cell rang. It was Bonnie, tired of waiting, saying she was leaving and that he'd have to find his own way home.

The two doctors stepped outside the room, walking together down the hall toward the waiting room. When they arrived, they were surprised to find the area full of people—all ages, all ethnicities—all asking questions. As word had spread about Skins, his fellow musicians, as well as some of the fans, had flocked to Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. There must have been ten or fifteen of them altogether, all wanting information about House's condition. Their anxiety showed on their faces.

"Sorry," said Wilson. "We still don't know what's causing the problem. We'll keep you posted."

He hated to leave them hanging. At least with cancer, there were fairly clear-cut answers—either it was benign or it was malignant, cancer or not cancer.

Cuddy's frustration was evident. As she and Wilson headed back down the hall toward House's room, she began to fidget, picking at her manicured nails.

Suddenly she stopped, a few yards from the room.

"I know only one person who could figure this out," she said.

"Who?" asked Wilson, wondering if she was going to suggest importing a specialist from another hospital. The board of directors generally frowned on that, and the hospital administrator wasn't likely to approve it.

"House," she said.

Startled, Wilson stared at her.

"But he's the patient."

"I know," replied Cuddy, taking a deep breath as she headed toward the door.

"But he's the _patient!_" repeated Wilson, reaching out a hand to stop her.

Cuddy looked him in the eye.

"Wilson, he's the best there is."

"But he's a musician. If he's so good, why is he playing piano downtown?"

Annoyed, Cuddy hissed at him.

"Listen, you want to know how good he is? Here's how good. When I went to school with him, he started a contest, a game really."

"A game?" What did this have to do with his abilities?

"He challenged everyone in the entire medical school to beat him diagnosing rare diseases based on symptoms chosen by the faculty."

Wilson was intrigued, by both the audacity and the unconventional attitude.

"Once a week, the symptoms were posted. The first person to correctly identify what the symptoms added up to got $100. By the end of the school year, House was $1,800 richer, and no one else had any money. No one else even came close."

Now Wilson was more than intrigued. He was impressed. Okay. He'd go along with this.

"You convinced me. Let's go talk to him."


	4. Chapter 4

House was just young enough and just lucky enough to avoid getting drafted for Vietnam. But not all of his friends were that young or that lucky. David Alberghetti had been shot to hell. Alan Simms had been blinded. Petey Lantz had lost an arm. Others came back tormented by what they'd seen and done, unable to live their lives as planned because they'd been dragged off to war.

And now, in his drugged dream, House was there, too, lying in a pool of his own blood, his right leg shredded by shrapnel. He looked down at it, noting calmly that his foot seemed very far away. Then he realized why. His shoe, his foot and his leg were about three yards off to the side, his leg torn off just below the hip.

The dream morphed. Now he was lying in the forest, a panther perched on his chest, its hot breath in his face. Again, his leg had been ripped off. The panther licked its lips as a few drops of blood—his blood—dripped from the panther's mouth onto his face.

As Cuddy re-entered House's room, noting that only the girlfriend remained, he suddenly opened his eyes and began to howl.

Janet's eyes snapped open. She'd been dozing in the chair next to his bed, but now she was fully awake.

House, however, wasn't. His eyes were open, but he wasn't there. He was somewhere else, somewhere far away, where something terrible was happening.

"Greg! _Greg!_ Wake up!"

Cuddy ran to his other side. Quickly, she put her fingers to his neck. His pulse was racing, and he was panting.

The girlfriend—what was her name again?—was beginning to panic as he continued to yell, his unfocused eyes staring at something she couldn't see.

"House," said Cuddy quietly in his ear. "It's okay. Calm down. You're having a nightmare. It's okay." Gently, she rubbed his back. His breathing slowed, and finally he shook his head. Still frightened, his gaze went from Janet to Cuddy and back again.

"My leg!" he cried.

"We know," said Cuddy soothingly. "We're working on it."

He looked down as if he expected to see something horrible. But clearly outlined under the blanket were both of his legs.

Where was he? Oh, yes. The hospital. His leg.

Nightmare. Okay. Settle down. Not real.

But something was real. The pain was real. Even with the morphine. Something was very very wrong.

"Something is very very wrong," Cuddy was saying to him. "The problem is, we don't know what it is."

_Tell me something I don't know._

House just nodded. It was mid-afternoon, and he'd been living with this pain for close to thirty hours. Sometimes, after getting more meds, the pain receded… a little… but it was always there.

Right now, the pain had backed off, giving him a chance to think.

She came closer, leaning over his bed. He smelled expensive perfume. Her brilliant blue eyes, set amidst all that long, black hair, were what had attracted him to her all those years ago. Her overriding ambition was what had driven him away.

He heard the door open again, and the other doctor slipped into the room. Wilson. He looked like a nice enough guy, and House had certainly been grateful that he'd been at the club. Was it only yesterday?

Janet stood up to give Wilson access to the bed.

"Greg," said Cuddy softly. "I know this is unusual, but we need your help to figure out what's wrong with your leg."

_Buraku_, he thought, smiling. _I choose music, and medicine chooses me. Can't get away from it._

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Janet, looking worried. Damn. Even turning his head made his leg hurt. He looked over at Wilson, who seemed to be trying to talk.

"Uh… Skins, I mean _Dr. House_…" stuttered Wilson, not quite sure what he wanted to say. "Uh… Dr. Cuddy seems to think… uh… that… you would actually… uh… be the best person to… well, diagnose your condition."

Amused by the man's nervousness, he wondered how Cuddy had convinced Wilson—_if _she had convinced him—that only he could diagnose himself. For a moment, he imagined their conversation, and smiled to himself.

"No Department of Diagnostics?" he asked, testing.

"Nope. And we'd rather not send you to Manhattan General, unless we can't help it."

Ah. Hospital procedure and policy. Forget about getting the patient the best treatment. Just follow the rules. _That's_ why he wasn't practicing medicine.

"Okay. What do you want from me?"

"Your brain," said Cuddy. "Just your brain. Tell us what we can do to help you think."

House took a breath.

"Can you get me a whiteboard? Then we could write things down."

"I'll get it," said Wilson, relieved to finally have something concrete to do.

Wilson returned half an hour later rolling a whiteboard into the room. By this time, Cuddy was seated on House's other side, with Janet holding one of his hands and Cuddy the other. House was asleep.

"He asked me to wake him up when you got back," said Cuddy, touching House on the shoulder.

After a moment of disorientation, House woke up. When he saw the whiteboard, he looked at Wilson. Their eyes met for a moment, and then he nodded.

"Okay. Let's get started. The way this is going to work is that we'll all throw out ideas, and I'll tell you when you're being idiots. We'll keep going until we figure it out. Or until I die from the pain, whichever comes first."

Wilson was startled. Patients seldom made jokes about pain. This guy was in anguish, and yet he was making jokes about it… and about exactly what might happen to him. He found himself examining House more closely than he had before, wondering what made the guy tick.

Within an hour, the whiteboard was full of notes, all written by Wilson, at House's directive.

"Thigh Pain" was written at the top of the board.

Underneath, were written:

Muscle strain

Tendon/muscle tear

Leriche Syndrome

Adult hypophosphatasia

Axial osteosclerosis

Iliotibial Band Syndrome

Meralgia paresthetica

One by one, over the course of the next five hours, they eliminated every one. Wilson found the process fascinating. All four of them—Wilson, Cuddy, House and even Janet—participated. Janet, although she was an attorney and not a doctor, was actually very helpful, because she asked basic questions and kept them focused.

Cuddy was right. The guy was brilliant. Brilliant and quick. Before Wilson could even consider some of the options, House had verbalized exactly why they didn't apply in this case.

Unfortunately, by ten o'clock, they had eliminated everything on the whiteboard.

"Clear it off," growled House to Wilson, who complied. "What did we miss?"

Wilson cleared the board.

Suddenly, it didn't matter what they missed. The pain was back, and it was going to run things for a while.

"Ohhhhh, God!" roared House without warning, bending double to grip his thigh. Suddenly, he threw up, far too unexpectedly for anyone to grab the emesis basin.

Janet gripped his hand tightly as she looked up pleadingly at Wilson and Cuddy. _Help him!_ she seemed to be saying. _Help him!_

Cuddy jumped up, unlocked the controls for the morphine drip, and upped his dosage. At this rate, he was going to OD before they figured it out.

In the meantime, he continued to throw up. Normal response to extreme pain. Didn't mean he had to like it.

Slowly, House released his grip on his thigh, sighing cautiously as an orderly began to clean him up.


	5. Chapter 5

Throughout the night, Janet Ivins sat at House's side, watching him sleep and listening to him moan. She was not used to feeling helpless, and this sense of being powerless in the face of circumstance frustrated her. As the spasms came and went, his sleeping face contorted with pain, his breathing fast and shallow, perspiration drenching his face. Several times during the night, she rose from her chair and went into the bathroom to rinse a washcloth with cold water, patting his brow and trying to soothe him in his sleep.

Inaction didn't suit her. She was accustomed to taking charge, making decisions, confronting the very medical establishment she now found herself at the mercy of, as the man with whom she had chosen to spend her life groaned in agony.

A part of her was in awe of the Greg she'd just witnessed—she had never seen his medical side in the four years they'd been together. Of course, she knew he had that medical degree, that he had been on staff at several hospitals, but by the time they met, he'd chosen to leave that life behind.

Right brain, left brain. She knew his right brain, the creative side, the musical side of his personality, but she had never seen the left brain before, the concentrated intellect, the focused logic trying to solve a problem. It stunned her to watch him grappling with the mystery, trying to separate his own fears and pain from the process of thinking his way through to a solution.

During the five hours that he had guided the three of them through the list on the whiteboard, something else had struck her. They respected him—Cuddy immediately, and as the night progressed, Wilson, too. She could see it on their faces, in the ways they responded to him as he ran through the possible diagnoses and explained why none of them fit the facts of his case.

Because of his talent and his wit, the musicians at the club had appointed House their unofficial musical leader, but she'd never seen anyone respect him in quite this way before. Cuddy and Wilson… they _deferred _to him… to his medical mind and to his unique abilities. They clearly saw him as a medical genius.

And yet, he was the same man who had walked away from this world, the man her parents saw as a slacker, as someone who would never succeed, at least not by their definition of success. But it was clear from the way Wilson and Cuddy reacted to him that Greg could have been someone who commanded respect from the entire medical profession, had he chosen that route for his life.

Janet devoted a small part of her mind to pondering Lisa Cuddy. It was obvious from the moment the dark-haired woman had entered the room that not only had she known Greg before, but she also knew him well—as in biblically well. Janet recognized that slightly embarrassed flush from her own accidental meetings with former boyfriends.

But once Greg had gotten past being startled at seeing an old flame, he had turned his face toward Janet's, allowing their eyes to meet. _Don't worry about it_ said his expression, as he squeezed her hand gently_. I'm with you. If I wanted to be with her, I'd still be with her. That's all you need to know. _From that moment on, she saw nothing in his face or behavior suggesting that Cuddy was anything other than a friend from the past. And Janet was confident enough in herself and their relationship to know that a former girlfriend was no threat to her.

Once she got past her own shock at seeing him, Cuddy, to her credit, was the complete professional.

As the evening evolved and pain took over, Janet saw a side to Greg she hadn't seen much before. His temper grew short and his tongue grew sharp. He grew increasingly impatient with them, with what he perceived as their stupidity as they stumbled to keep up with his mental leaps to methodically eliminate all of the potential diagnoses.

Even knowing that she had a legal background and not a medical one, he snapped at her, pushing her emotional buttons and digging at her vulnerabilities. More than once, she found herself on the verge of tears, and not just because she was exhausted and frightened.

_No wonder he walked away from that life_, _if this is who it turns him into, _she thought drowsily around five a.m. _He didn't want to be this person._

As dawn approached, she slipped into a troubled sleep, leaning forward to rest her head against his chest, her right hand tucked into his. Occasionally, as the pain hit him, he squeezed her hand too tightly, waking her for a few moments before he took a breath and forced himself to relax. Then the two of them drifted off for a while longer, until the pain gripped him again.

House slept a drugged sleep until late the next morning. It was now two days since the pain had started.

Once awake, he did two things. He sent Janet home to get some sleep, and he asked for Cuddy and Wilson to come to his room.

As Wilson passed Janet in the hall, he laid a hand on her arm.

"He'll be okay," he said in his best comforting-the-family voice.

"How do you know?" she asked bluntly as she headed toward the elevator. But she looked relieved, if not entirely convinced.

When Wilson entered the room, Cuddy was already at the whiteboard, ready to write.

"Infection? DVT? Tumor?" House asked, with no preliminaries.

Cuddy responded practically, clearly trusting House's medical judgment that these were the most logical options left to consider.

Ticking off the possibilities, she said, "Antibiotics, just in case. No swelling or fatigue in the leg. Oncologist." She pointed to Wilson.

Wilson was startled. No hello. Nothing about how he was feeling this morning. Just right back to the differential diagnosis.

_I guess if it was my leg and I was in that kind of pain, I might want to get it solved before engaging in pleasantries, too,_ he decided.

"We'll do an x-ray and a CT to check for bone cancer," he said, and then started to explain why he thought bone cancer was the best diagnosis for the symptoms.

House interrupted him.

"Fine," he said. "Makes sense. Do it."

As Wilson left House's room to make the arrangements, he saw the crowd in the waiting room out of the corner of his eye. Heading that way, he decided it was more than time to give them an update… and there was no one else around to do it. Cuddy had headed off in the other direction.

He felt a little like a Christian (Ha! That's a laugh!) headed into the Roman Coliseum to face the lions.

A dozen faces leaned toward him as he approached.

"Is he okay?"

"What's going on?"

"How's Skins?"

"Tell me what's happening."

"Are you his doctor?"

"What caused it?"

"Can we see him?"

Wilson put up his hands to signal them to move away. They backed off slightly, giving him room to move forward. Good God, this guy had a lot of friends.

"He's resting comfortably right now. We're still trying to find the underlying cause, but I'll keep you posted."

"But can we see him?" came a voice from the crowd.

All of them? At once? Not a good idea.

"I can't let all of you to go in at once, but we might be able to arrange for a few of you to go in at a time."

That seemed to suit them, and they settled down.

Wilson wandered back to House's room to find his patient struggling to sit up.

"You're set for two o'clock. There are a lot of people in the waiting room."

"Not soon enough. And that matters to me because…?"

It took him a moment, but Wilson realized that House's first sentence referred to his two o'clock x-ray and CT appointment, and the second to the crowd. This guy was keeping him on his toes. Strangely, Wilson found that he liked it. He felt slightly more alive, somehow, having to keep his wits about him all the time.

"Because they want to see you."

"Ah. Should have said so. Send `em in."

"But your leg…"

"…will still be here whether they're in my room or out in the hall. Send `em in."

"_All_ of them?"

House looked at him sharply.

"How many?"

"Maybe twenty."

"What the hell. Send `em in."

Wilson shrugged. The guy was a doctor, and if he thought he was up to seeing twenty people, then far be it from him to argue.

Within minutes, the room was stuffed with people. Before Wilson knew it, an impromptu jam session had broken out, as guitars and ukuleles came out of cases. A quiet blues wafted out of the room.

"Are you insane?" asked nurse Brenda Previn as he came out of the room. "What are you thinking?"

Wilson shrugged, secretly delighted that this one man had managed to demolish hospital decorum.

"Get them out of there!"

Now Wilson was really amused.

He headed, not into House's room, but into the room next to it.

"Does the music bother you?" he asked.

A middle-aged woman with weary eyes looked up at him from her bed.

"Why, not at all," she replied. "I kind of like it."

After polling the rest of the floor, he reported back to nurse Brenda that it was unanimous. The other patients _liked_ the live music.

"I give up!" said Previn with an aggravated exhale.

Good, thought Wilson. He liked the music, too. After all, his visit to the Satchmo Club had been cut short.


	6. Chapter 6

The room was so crowded, there wasn't space for Wilson, so he sat himself down at the nurse's station and listened, closing his eyes for a few minutes.

At about one, he decided it was time to check on his patient. He wandered back into the room. The music was still going on, quietly, and Wilson was startled to see House holding a guitar and playing along. Every so often, his face twitched as if a pain spasm had hit him, but when Wilson glanced at the monitors, he saw with surprise that, unlike earlier, House's heart rate remained relatively stable.

Thinking back, Wilson realized he'd seen House play guitar before, in addition to piano and drums. He was usually so into the music that he didn't pay much attention to the musicians. No denying it. The guy was talented. Talented and brilliant.

He stood in the doorway, listening contentedly for a while, before apologetically shooing everyone out. The musicians reluctantly left the room, but not before each of them approached House and leaned over to whisper words of encouragement or gently touch his arm or his cheek.

"Bathroom," said House abruptly at about one forty-five. "I've got to pee."

Wilson helped House out of the bed and into a wheelchair. The man was unsteady on his feet, and not just because he hadn't used his lower extremities for a while. He was afraid to put any weight on his right leg, for even a few steps. Grunting, he lowered himself into the chair.

Wilson wheeled him into the bathroom, and then waited hesitantly.

"Do you… uh… need any help?"

House chuckled, the sound echoing off the bathroom tiles.

"Don't think so. Been doing this on my own for years—I'm pretty sure I remember how."

Starting to get the idea of how to interact with House, Wilson said, "I'm sure you do. It's like riding a bike… except that you're standing up and pointing. But you haven't been doing it with a compromised leg."

Although he heard another chuckle resonate off the bathroom tiles, Wilson found himself in a Mexican standoff. House stubbornly refused Wilson's help, and Wilson, just as stubbornly, refused to withdraw it.

Eventually, they came to a compromise. House got the privacy he wanted… but only just so much of it. The door remained partway open, and Wilson stayed right outside in case he was needed. It turned out he was.

"Fuck!" said House after a moment.

"What?"

"You'd better come in here," said House. "But give me a second."

By the time Wilson opened the door, House had washed his hands before re-depositing himself in the chair.

"What is it?" asked Wilson. "What's wrong?"

"That," said House, pointed at the toilet. "That's what's wrong."

Wilson looked and immediately saw what had caused House's concern.

He'd been peeing blood. And not just blood. Tea-colored blood. Waste. His kidneys were shutting down.

They were running out of time to figure this out.

By the time House returned to the room after the x-ray and the CT, so had the pain.

This time, he didn't care whose hand he held.

The whites of House's eyes were tinged with yellow, and the pain kept increasing. Although he could barely speak, he insisted on continuing the differential diagnosis.

Cuddy slipped back into the room mid-afternoon, in time for the results of House's tests. After looking at the x-ray and the CT, Wilson, the oncologist, ruled out cancer, and was relieved. He hadn't relished the idea of seeing this man become one of his cancer patients. But because he had actual cancer patients to attend to, he quietly took his leave.

About five minutes after Wilson left the room, House let out a groan.

"It's getting worse and worse," said Cuddy to no one in particular. She found it almost impossible to see House this way. All she could think about was the charismatic young medical student she had known at the University of Michigan, not this tormented, anguished man.

She closed her eyes for a moment and willed herself back into the present.

"Okay," she said firmly. "That leaves an infection."

"Or something else," said House between groans.

"Or an infection."

"Or something else."

"Or an infection," insisted Cuddy glaring at him.

"Elevated creatinine levels rule out infection," he said through gritted teeth.

"Damn it," said Cuddy, looking away.

Five minutes later, with no more answers in sight, Lisa Cuddy's pager went off, drawing her out of the room and away from Greg House.


	7. Chapter 7

Well, it was official. Lisa Cuddy now ruled the world. As of this afternoon, she had been appointed the hospital's new administrator and Dean of Medicine, one of only three females to hold that position in the country.

"Congratulations!" said Brenda Previn with forced enthusiasm. Privately, she wondered if this slight woman was a little too obsessed with her appearance to be up to the task.

"Congratulations!" said her predecessor, who had recommended someone else for the job.

"Congratulations!" said Wilson, who doubted she had enough political skill to make the changes necessary to turn Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital into a first-rate facility.

By the time Cuddy got back to House's room, it was three hours later. The room was empty.

"Where is he?" she asked Brenda Previn, on duty.

Brenda looked startled. Startled and nervous. Startled and nervous… and guilty.

Why guilty?

"What's happened here?" asked Cuddy, trying not to get alarmed.

Had his kidneys failed? Cardiac arrest? Coma?

Brenda glanced away, then down toward the floor. She pulled herself together as if facing a firing squad, and looked straight at the woman who was now in a position to determine her future.

"He started screaming," she began, slowly. Then the words tumbled out. "I-It was… terrible… I-I… oh, hell! I upped his morphine dose without checking to see how much he was already getting."

Cuddy stared at her a moment before saying anything.

"You _OD'd _him? _You OD'd Greg House?_"

Mutely, Brenda nodded.

"He's in the ER."

"Fuck," said Cuddy, less than professionally.

She fought the desire to punch Brenda Previn in the face. But as she stuffed down her anger, her mind heard House's howls of pain, and remembered her own thoughts: _At this rate, he's going to OD before we figure it out._ And although she knew what the nurse had done was unacceptable, it was also understandable. Anything to stop the pain. Anything to make it go away.

She held a deep breath, exhaling before speaking, her voice deliberate and quiet.

"You're never going to let something like this happen again, are you, Brenda?"

Brenda let out a sharp sigh, whether from surprise at Cuddy's reaction or relief that she hadn't been fired, Cuddy wasn't sure.

"Hell, no," she said.

Cuddy smiled, knowing she had ensured Brenda Previn's ongoing loyalty, and headed to the Emergency Room.

A few hours later, stabilized and back in his room, House stared at the ceiling. Then he stared at the floor. He stared out the door, watching an orderly pass by. He'd have stared out the window, but there wasn't one. He stared at the monitors. He stared at Janet, asleep on the couch in the corner of the room. He stared at the equipment surrounding the bed. He stared at the IV bag dripping sweet sweet morphine into his system. He stared at Wilson, sitting in the chair next to him.

Unlike the ceiling, the floor, the door, the orderly, the window, the monitors, Janet, the equipment or the IV bag, Wilson stared back.

"What is it, Dr. House?" he asked, leaning forward.

"Forget that doctor shit,' came the terse reply. "Call me House."

"House. Okay. What is it?"

"Thinking. Just thinking. If it weren't for these drugs, I'd have figured this out hours ago." His voice seethed with frustration.

_Was he really that good?_ wondered Wilson. _Was he really so good that without drugs in his system he could have figured it out by now?_

He looked at the lean, strained face and the thoughtful blue eyes, searching the face in an attempt to understand the mind behind it. In House's presence, he felt stupid, the way he had as a first-year med student listening to 20-year specialists talking with ease about things he hadn't yet learned.

House reached for the cup of juice on the tray next to him and placed his lips around the straw. As he sucked on it, orange pulp got lodged partway up, keeping the juice from getting through to his mouth. He pulled the cup away from his mouth and stared at the straw.

A faint smile crept across House's face.

"Not an infection," he said quietly.

Now it was Wilson's turn to stare.

"But that's the only thing left," he said.

"The only _obvious_ thing left," corrected House.


	8. Chapter 8

"Peripheral aneurysm," groaned House, the pain so bad he was barely able to speak. "Threw a clot."

Wilson just stared at him.

"But that's really rare," he said. "And clots usually cause strokes."

"Do I look like someone who's had a stroke?" asked House impatiently.

Well, no. He certainly didn't.

"If it wasn't rare," he went on, "I'd have figured it out yesterday."

"Peripheral aneurysms usually present in the back of the thigh, not the front."

"_Usually_ being the operative word."

While Wilson was struggling with this concept, House took charge.

"Get me an MRI. Now. I need to know what's going on in there."

Wilson made a call.

"The soonest we can get you in is five o'clock. Does that suit you?"

"Actually, none of this suits me. But it'll do."

Insisting on an MRI turned out to be smart—and Wilson was learning that smart was something House did very well.

As soon as they saw the results, they had the answer. House was right. It was an aneurysm. A clot backed up the blood flow, creating gangrene. His muscle cells were dying, which caused the pain, and leaked myoglobin, which was damaging his kidneys.

The next few hours were tense. Now that he had the answer, House dug in his metaphorical heels and stubbornly insisted that he control his treatment.

"Deal with the aneurysm and remove the clot. Do a bypass to restore blood flow."

For the first time in two days, Cuddy knew what to say.

"We should remove the leg."

"I like my leg. Do a bypass."

"Reperfusion. You'll be in pain."

"I'm already in pain. Deal with the aneurysm and remove the clot. Do a bypass to restore blood flow."

After a few more times back and forth, Cuddy gave in and ordered the surgery the way House had requested it.

As Cuddy predicted, the removal of the clot caused reperfusion, which increased House's pain, if such a thing were possible. It went from excruciating to intolerable.

The next morning was even worse.

"I can't stand seeing you like this," said Janet to House, when he took a breath after screaming for two solid minutes. When he wasn't screaming, he was vomiting, although there was nothing left to vomit. "If this was going to work, it would have happened by now."

"No… Let's wait… give it more time."

"This pain is going to kill you."

After a very long pause, House looked away from her. "I know," he said.

"Let them take your leg."

"I-I can't."

He couldn't bring himself to tell her why he couldn't let them cut off his leg, even though he knew it would stop the pain. In fact, he wasn't entirely sure why himself. The pain was so intense, it blocked the voices in his head, the ones that constantly judged him.

"_See that cripple?" said his father. "Pathetic. Those guys who came back from `Nam missing a limb… what did they have to live for? Barely even human. They'd have been better off dead."_

"_Oh, look at that poor man," said his mother, inclining her head toward a filthy, one-legged man sitting on the corner, a battered fedora on the ground in front of him. Leaning against it was a piece of cardboard that read 'Help me.' An equally filthy dog panted nearby, a ragtag yellow kerchief around its neck. "I feel so sorry for people like that, don't you, Greg?"_

He'd deal with the pain.

"_I knew a guy once who was showered with napalm and never made a peep. Now _that _was a man."_

Although House's logical mind never would have admitted it, a little part of his brain that he seldom accessed thought that maybe, somehow, he deserved the pain.

"_I'm… disappointed in you. I just don't get you. You don't fit in. You're a bum. You spend years in medical school, and you throw it away to go play the drums? We had higher hopes for you, son."_

But another little part of his brain had an idea.

"Call the doctor."

Janet ran into Cuddy and Wilson in the hall, headed toward House's room.

"He wants you to put him in a chemically induced coma to ride out the pain," she said.

Startled, Wilson simply looked at her. A coma?

"We can do that," replied Cuddy guardedly.

"Will it work?"

"It could. He could be right," she told Janet. "He could come out of this with almost full use of his leg… or he could be in pain for the rest of his life." She paused. "There is a third option—a middle ground between what we did and amputation."

"He's not big on middle ground," said Janet.

_No, he's not_, agreed Cuddy. _Not the House I remember._

"You'll be asleep in about a minute," said Cuddy, removing the syringe from his IV.

"Thank you," he said weakly.

"You sure this will work?" asked Janet, leaning close to him.

"Sure it will," he replied, getting drowsy. He looked at her through heavy lids. "Hey… I love you."

"I love you, too."

She paused.

Then she whispered.

"I'm sorry."

As he responded, his eyes grew heavy and his voice drifted away.

"You don't have anything to be sorry for…"

As soon as he was out, Janet got up and walked over to Cuddy, standing at the foot of the bed.

"This middle ground. What is it? I'm his medical proxy, and I want to know what the options are."

"Cutting out the dead muscle," said Cuddy. "It's called debridement. There's still a chance of reperfusion, but it should allow him to keep the leg."

"How could you do that?" asked Wilson angrily. "How could you influence her to go against his wishes?"

"She needed to know there was another option."

"No, she didn't. She needed to support what he wanted."

"Yes, she did need to know. It's called _informed_ consent, remember?"

"_He's _the one giving consent. And if there's anything I've figured out in the last few days, it's that House is informed."

"You know what this will mean, don't you?" asked Cuddy of Janet as House began to stir. "He may still have some pain, and he'll need a lot of support."

"I understand," said Janet. "I'll take responsibility for my decision."

_Even if you leave him with chronic pain?_ wondered Wilson, standing nearby. _How happy is he going to be about that?_


	9. Chapter 9

An hour later, Janet gently touched House's shoulder. His eyes fluttered open.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"How do you feel?"

House looked at her as his mind grappled with where he was and how he felt.

"Still hurts," he said.

Janet's heart sank. Had she made the right choice?

"Does it?"

"Uh-huh."

Gingerly, he moved his right leg.

"But it's better. Much better."

Thank God, she thought, relief flooding her.

She saw a puzzled look on his face.

"What is it, Greg?"

"Before… before the coma… why did you say you were sorry?"

Janet shrugged. "I don't know. Just so sorry you've had to go through all this pain."

"Yeah, well, me too. But it's definitely better."

"So you were right. About the coma."

"You doubted me?" For the first time in three days, he grinned at her.

She squeezed his hand and smiled back.

"Not much. If I hadn't believed in patients' rights before, I'd have to be stupid not to believe in them now, when the patient is a doctor… and when the doctor is you."

* * * *

For the next two weeks, House lived at the hospital, some of his days spent recovering his strength after the surgery and the coma, and some of his days beginning intensive physical therapy as he learned to walk again.

Janet was with him as much as possible, although her law practice couldn't be put on hold indefinitely, so some days she was there only a few hours, and other days not at all.

Every day or so, his musician friends came by, providing impromptu concerts for the patients on the floor. Brenda Previn conceded defeat.

Cuddy, of course, was making the transition to her new position, her days full of meetings and administrative duties.

Now that the situation was no longer grave, Wilson returned to his oncology practice. But at least once a day, he found himself drawn to the musician who was really a doctor—or was it a doctor who was really a musician? Sometimes Janet was there. Sometimes his musician friends were visiting. But sometimes, House was alone.

When he was alone, Wilson settled into the chair next to the bed, and the two of them talked. Given how much pain the man had been in, Wilson wouldn't have been surprised to find that House didn't even remember him. But House not only remembered him, he seemed to enjoy his company.

Wilson had never wanted to be anything except a doctor, so he found House, and the decisions he'd made about his life, fascinating. As they conversed, time slipped away, and Wilson was often startled to discover that he'd spent two hours or more at the side of this man he realized he'd never understand.

The day House was scheduled to be discharged, Wilson stopped by. Looking through the glass door, he saw House sitting up in bed, quietly strumming a ukulele. He knocked, then slid open the door and stepped inside.

"How's it going?" he asked.

The strumming stopped as House looked up.

"Ah, it's Dr. Cancer," said House, a hint of a twinkle in his eye.

"It's Dr. Medical-Genius-Who'd-Rather-Drop-Out."

House snorted.

"I guess this provided a change for you," he said. "No chemo and vomiting, no baldness, no death sentences."

His eyes searched Wilson's to see if he'd be shocked by his bluntness.

Wilson wasn't fazed. "On the other hand, I got to hear lots of screaming, and you've left me with a mystery."

House smiled. "Sometimes a mystery is a good thing. Which mystery do you mean?"

Wilson shrugged. "The mystery of why."

One of the things Wilson had figured out over the last couple of weeks is that House was seldom surprised, and never needed to have things spelled out for him. So when he responded, his tone of voice suggested that he had anticipated how Wilson had reacted to getting to know him.

"Why," he stated declaratively.

"Yes, why. Why would you turn your back on all this talent? I've never seen anyone else do what you just did—break down the symptoms until you found the answer. How can you walk away from all that medical training and a career in medicine?"

House snorted again.

"In case you hadn't noticed, I'm not walking away. I'm hobbling."

Wilson smiled. "Okay, then. Hobbling. You have to come back to medicine."

House looked at him intently for a long time. When he finally spoke, it was in a low, determined voice.

"No, Wilson, I don't. When it really matters, medicine comes and finds me. But music is always there. For the most part, medicine just taps into my left brain, the thinking part of me. Finding the solution is exhilarating, it's a challenge and it can be rewarding. It's like the quick adrenalin high from parachute jumping—goes right to your senses and leaves you breathless… but eventually it leaves you.

"Music… it's my right brain and my left brain together. The left brain figures out the chord changes and remembers the melody, while the right brain uses that information to tap into something deep, something primal. It's that adrenalin high and so much more. Medicine just can't compete."

It didn't make sense. Wilson still couldn't figure out how House could turn his back on a career that could bring him so much. What he couldn't quite admit to himself is that part of him envied House having such tremendous gifts in two different areas, when he had only one and, frankly, wasn't sure how great his gift was. Certainly, he was bright, but he knew he wasn't brilliant like this man. And the part he really couldn't admit is that he envied what he saw of House's life—the crazy hours, the eccentric friends, the girlfriend who obviously adored him.

What did he have? Patients who were constantly dying, and a marriage that was dying, too. He struggled to understand.

"You could be making so much more money if you got back into medicine."

House snorted.

"What would I spend it on? More musical instruments, probably. I've got those anyway."

"But you have an obligation to use that gift of yours. You have to use it. It's… it's like a sin not to."

As soon as he'd said it, Wilson knew he'd struck a dissonant chord. House was annoyed.

"Let's get this straight, Wilson, right now. I appreciate everything you've done for me. But you really don't have the right to tell me how to run my life. I'm sorry it doesn't meet with your approval, but it's my life to live, not yours."

"I-I never said I didn't approve…"

"You didn't have to. It's all over your face. It's in the way you stand. Look, I know you'd like it better if I gave up music for medicine. My whole life people have been trying to force me to make that very choice. I tried it for a while. The costs outweighed the benefits. So drop it."

Wilson had stepped over a line, and he knew it.

"Sorry. Really none of my business."

"Yep. None of your business. My business."

Silently, Wilson helped House into requisite wheelchair and rolled him out into the hall and down toward the elevator.

As they exited onto the first floor and headed for the main door, where Janet was waiting with the car, Wilson sighed.

"Hey," he said quietly.

House looked up at him.

"If you ever feel the need to… I don't know… talk about medicine, maybe, give me a call, okay?"

"Deal," said House. "Pizza's good, too."

* * * *

Cuddy felt guilty for trying to pressure Janet into the debridement. Good thing Janet hadn't listened, that she'd supported House's wishes. He'd been right, of course. But then, he'd always been right. Eighteen weeks and he'd been right every time.

He would walk with a slight limp, perhaps for the rest of his life, but he'd kept his leg and the pain was receding daily.

"I'm about to create a Department of Diagnostic Medicine," said Cuddy over the phone a few days later. "I'd like you to apply to be the department head."

"Not a chance," replied House firmly.

"But you'd be perfect for it."

"Don't care. I've got a good thing, and for once in my life I'm not going to screw it up."

* * * *

Two months later, at eleven o'clock on Sunday morning, Wilson sat alone at his comped front-row table at the Satchmo Club.

"Happy Sunday, everyone!" called out Paul Randolph Johnston from a mike near the front of the room. "We're delighted to have you join us for our weekly Sunday Jazz Brunch with Johnston's Jazz All-Stars."

Applause.

"Before I bring in the band, I just want to let all of you know how happy all of us are that one of our musicians has pulled through a difficult medical situation. This will be his first time back with the group in a couple of months. When they come on stage, please give a special welcome to our own renaissance man, our former drummer, current piano player and sometime guitar plucker, Greg 'Skins' House. Ladies and Gentlemen, Johnston's Jazz All-Stars."

Applause.

The band ambled on. First the drummer—kid what's-his-name—now a permanent member since Keys had quit the band, followed by Deep Voice, lugging his bass, Reeds, who settled several shot glasses full of bourbon and reeds inside the open lid to the piano, and then Hot Lips, of course, plus several others Wilson didn't recognize.

Finally, on came House, leaning heavily on his cane—a little slowly, a little unsteadily, but clearly determined to make it to the far side of the stage and his piano. Wilson saw Janet standing in the wings, watching his progression.

The applause was spontaneous and warm.

As House crossed the stage, Wilson saw the limp. It was a bad one. But House's face showed no pain. His decision had been the right one. With physical therapy, he'd be okay. Not perfect, but okay.

Almost without realizing he'd done it, Wilson slowly stood to his feet, oblivious to the fact that he was triggering a standing ovation behind him. He merely wanted to acknowledge the medical genius he'd felt privileged to watch in action.

About the time House reached the edge of the piano, he realized the applause wasn't dying down. He glanced up at the crowd, then looked away uncomfortably, as if unwilling to believe the reaction was for him. But when he looked off to his right, he saw Hot Lips and Reeds, clapping their hands, too. He finally seemed to realize both the audience and his fellow musicians were honoring him.

"We missed you!" came a voice from the crowd.

Paul Randolph Johnston came forward.

"We sure did, man." He clapped House on the shoulder and guided him the rest of the way to the piano bench.

Wilson thought he detected a sharp intake of breath, perhaps House's way of trying to control his emotions in the face of the unexpected acclaim. Shaking his head slightly, House turned toward the audience, squared his shoulders and put on a mask of humor to cover up his embarrassment.

"Oh, you!" he said, smiling, swiping his hand at the audience. "Now stop that!"

The audience laughed, and finally began to calm down.

"Come on, guys. Let's make some music."

As House settled himself behind the piano, he gently laid the cane on the floor and began to play, launching into a sweet, lazy Dixieland version of "Do You Know What It Means To Miss New Orleans."

After three choruses, one of which he sang, he looked past the keyboard and spotted Wilson seated up front.

For a long moment, their eyes met. House nodded in Wilson's direction.

Then, as the music carried him along, House closed his eyes and smiled.

THE END 


End file.
